


a touch to hurt, a touch to heal

by lightyears



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bratty!Clarke, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingering, Kink Meme, Protective!Bellamy, mob!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyears/pseuds/lightyears
Summary: Prompt: Bellamy is a brutal mob boss who’s all soft with his girlfriend Clarke. Maybe someone tries to hurt her and he beats them which turns her on...?





	a touch to hurt, a touch to heal

Despite having been restrained in a chair for the past hour, slapped around a little and interrogated a lot, Clarke’s not feeling too worried for herself at the moment.

Honestly, in the quiet of the sparse room — a single wooden chair under a shitty, flickering light; how cliche — she’s mostly feeling worried for the idiot who thought kidnapping her was a good move. Well, not worried _for_ him, more thinking he should be worrying about himself.

McCreary’s leaning against the closed door of the room, arms folded across his chest, watching her with a sharp, mean glare. She thinks he’s going for intimidating, but being so used to this type of man in this line of work, Clarke personally thinks he’s falling very short. The worst thing about this whole setup is the rope that’s rubbing painfully against the skin at her wrists and ankles, though she doesn’t even let him see that amount of discomfort in her expression. It seems to piss him off that she’s not more frightened, which is more than a little amusing, and anticipating a rescue within the next fifteen minutes, Clarke’s not too concerned of the consequences of pissing him off.

“I’ll ask you one last time, _princess._ ” He spits the name as though expecting it’ll get on her nerves, but Clarke loves the moniker, embraces it. She is a princess, the precious baby girl of the man who controls this whole goddamn city, and she adores the fact. “What shipment is Blake expecting next Thursday?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. It’s a shipment of guns, obviously, and it’s not even something they were trying to keep heavily under wraps. McCreary’s just a power-hungry idiot.

She doesn’t answer, simply stares back at him with a bored expression, which finally seems to be enough for McCreary to snap. Pushing off the door with a low growl, he stalks towards her, comes to stand between her legs. His fingers thread through her hair and tug painfully, forcing her head back to look at him, his enraged face only a few inches from her own.

“Don’t wanna take this seriously because we haven’t roughed you up yet?” He asks, his other hand moving to her throat, fingers curling enough that her heart stutters slightly. “Think about why that is, princess. It’s because my boys don’t feel like playing with anything bruised and battered. Today, at least.” For the first time, a slither of fear runs through her, with the thought of this man and his goons’ hands on her. McCreary must notice, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “Do you think your husband will still want you after you’ve been passed around by us? Filled with our come? When you’re growing my baby in your belly?”

Clarke spits in his face, anger and disgust swelling in her chest. “Fuck you.”

McCreary grins. “Oh, you will be. I’ve been waiting for _that_ for a long time.”

“Planning that line for long, McCreary?” A voice asks from the door, low and murderous, and Clarke feels her body relax all at once.

“Bellamy,” she says, his name an exhale of relief. She hadn’t heard him arrive, though that doesn’t surprise her. Bellamy and his team are ruthless of course, but quiet too; aren’t ones to draw attention with guns unless they have to, unlike the gang that kidnapped her.

McCreary whips around, moving for the gun holstered at his hip, but he’s not quick enough, Bellamy moving with a swiftness Clarke loves to witness, disarming him one second and punching him in the jaw the next.

She watches with rapt attention as a fight breaks out, the slap of flesh meeting flesh, pained grunts and groans filling the air, though it’s clear soon that Bellamy’s in control, his brute strength and agility outmatching McCreary quickly.

A pulse of heat runs through her as he overpowers the man who threatened her, watches as Bellamy begins pummelling him with his fists and his knees, blow after powerful blow. She adores him like this, the way his curls stick to his forehead with sweat, that his darkened gaze flashes with bloodthirsty menace, the way his muscles shift beneath a threadbare tee with each brutal move he inflicts; so fucking hot she can feel her cunt growing wet, a heated tension thickening around her, her arousal meeting the unhinged edge of Bellamy’s anger.

It draws her focus so quickly she’s almost too distracted to notice when Bellamy finally gets his hands around McCreary’s throat, long fingers flexing powerfully as the man attempts to break free. But again he’s no match for Bellamy, and Clarke watches as the life drains from him, the warmth at her core curling tight and wicked in response. It’s not the first time she’s witnessed Bellamy killing someone with his bare hands, but it’s the first time it’s been _for her_ , and the distinction tugs at something primal and aching within her, something that needs to be answered.

Bellamy finally lets McCreary go, his body falling limp and lifeless onto the ground unceremoniously, before turning to Clarke.

The shift is instant, his eyes clearing of any hostility, expression softening completely with concern as he rushes towards her, hands immediately moving over her gently, as if to feel for any injuries.

“Princess,” he murmurs, warm and adoring. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Bell,” she says, catching his eyes and offering a reassuring smile. “I promise I’m okay.”

His exhale is rough, but his touch is soft as he cradles her face, brings his forehead to rest on her own. “I heard what he was saying. When I arrived. If they ever touched you like that I would—”

“They didn’t,” she insists, pulling back to look at him earnestly. “And they _won’t._ You made sure of that, Bell; you protected me, like you always will.”

“You’re my princess, baby. Of course I’ll always protect you.”

She tilts her head, catches his mouth in a soft kiss, needing to reassure him of her safety, but with the arousal still stretched hot and wanting throughout her, she doesn’t keep it that way for long. Pressing past his lips, she deepens the kiss, lets it go filthy with the slide of her tongue and harsh with the scrape of her teeth, letting the feel of Bellamy, the taste of him, fan the flames of her need.

“Clarke,” he groans, pulling back to look at her, a different kind of darkness blowing his gaze now.

“Bellamy,” she whines, finally allowing herself to squirm a little in her seat, though with her hands tied behind the chair and her ankles to each of its legs, it doesn’t help much. “Watching you fight got me all horny. I wanna come.”

“Princess, there’s no time,” Bellamy says, hands moving to work at the rope securing her ankles. “We don’t know who could be on their way here, we need to go now.”

Her eyes flash, and she pouts childishly. Bellamy doesn’t tell her _no._ She’s his princess, and he treats her as such. “Bellamy,” she says again, waiting until he meets her gaze, sees the need clouding it. “I want to come. Now.”

His jaw works, but Clarke’s not worried. He doesn’t do well with going against her wishes, adores her too much not to give her exactly what she wants. Barely a few seconds later he lets out a conceding sigh, and Clarke grins giddily.

“You have to be quick, though, princess.”

“I will be,” she promises, watching as he shifts, pulling a switchblade from his pocket.

But he doesn’t go for her restraints, instead tugs her forward in the chair so she’s perched right on the edge, before flicking the knife open and bringing it to the tops of her thighs. Her heart hammers in her chest as Bellamy gives her a wicked look.

The cotton of her leggings gives easily to the blade, Bellamy cutting away the fabric over her cunt with ease, getting to her little pink panties beneath, though he makes quick work of those too, revealing her pussy spread and exposed.

“So wet, baby,” Bellamy murmurs, finally dropping the blade and settling between her thighs. He brings a finger to her cunt, slides it between her folds. “Did you get this wet watching me?”

Clarke squirms, chasing his touch as best she can with the tilt of her hips. “You look so hot all murderous like that. It’s not my fault.”

Bellamy’s laugh is dark. He leans in and bites at the inside of her thigh, making her shiver. “Oh, how I love seeing you aching like this, princess. But lucky for you we’re in a hurry.”

Without another word, he buries his mouth between her thighs, licking at the arousal that’s pooled at her cunt briefly — groaning into her like he always does when he gets to taste her pussy — before focusing in on her clit. Clarke whines, a shudder running through her as his tongue and lips begin to work, flicking and sucking, drawing pulses of sharp pleasure, as he slides two fingers into her, starts fucking her hard and fast, just what she needs.

Her mind clouds quickly, her body already so on edge from the kidnapping and the fight that it surrenders to the draw of release with ease. She thinks of Bellamy’s rage when he saw McCreary’s men pull her into a van, of the unrelenting fury he fought with when he found her; thinks of the fingers curling inside of her now that were just used to strangle the man who threatened her to death, of the utter love Bellamy softened to when he knew she was okay, concern and protectiveness and adoration seeped into his every touch.

The tension at her core reaches its peak, her cunt being treated so well by Bellamy’s warm and relentless mouth, his thick and talented fingers, and Clarke shatters with a soft cry, head falling back as pleasure crashes over her, its silky warmth spreading throughout her body perfectly.

She’s vaguely aware of Bellamy shifting around her as she comes back down, though it’s only when he lifts her into his arms and begins walking her out of the room that she realises they really are in _that_ much of a hurry.

Still, he took the time to take care of her, just like he always does.

A sleepy smile pulls at her lips as she basks in the lovely after glow of her orgasm, wrapped up in the strong, protective arms of the man she loves. “Thank you, Bell,” she murmurs, letting her eyes flutter shut as he makes it outside and into a waiting car, keeping her settled in his lap.

She feels his lips come to rest on her forehead, soft and warm and perfect. “Anything for you, princess.”


End file.
